Lost House — 2 - Chapter I, Part 2

In a quarter of an hour Ford was again back in Sowell Street no wiser than when he had entered it.

From the outside, at least, the three houses under suspicion gave no sign.

In the problem before him there was one point that Ford found difficult to explain.

It was the only one that caused him to question if the letter was genuine.

What puzzled him was this: Why, if the girl were free to throw two notes from the window, did she not throw them out by the dozen?

If she were able to reach a window, opening on the street, why did she not call for help?

Why did she not, by hurling out every small article the room contained, by screams, by breaking the window-panes, attract a crowd, and, through it, the police?

That she had not done so seemed to show that only at rare intervals was she free from restraint, or at liberty to enter the front room that opened on the street.

Would it be equally difficult, Ford asked himself, for one in the street to communicate with her?

What signal could he give that would draw an answering signal from the girl?

Standing at the corner, hidden by the pillars of a portico, the water dripping from his rain-coat, Ford gazed long and anxiously at the blank windows of the three houses.

Like blind eyes staring into his, they told no tales, betrayed no secret.

Around him the commonplace life of the neighborhood proceeded undisturbed.

Somewhere concealed in the single row of houses a girl was imprisoned, her life threatened; perhaps even at that moment she was facing her death.

While, on either side, shut from her by the thickness only of a brick wall, people were talking, reading, making tea, preparing the evening meal, or, in the street below, hurrying by, intent on trivial errands.

Hansom cabs, prowling in search of a fare, passed through the street where a woman was being robbed of a fortune, the drivers occupied only with thoughts of a possible shilling; a housemaid with a jug in her hand and a shawl over her bare head, hastened to the near-by public-house; the postman made his rounds, and delivered comic postal-cards; a policeman, shedding water from his shining cape, halted, gazed severely at the sky, and, unconscious of the crime that was going forward within the sound of his own footsteps, continued stolidly into Wimpole Street.

A hundred plans raced through Ford's brain; he would arouse the street with a false alarm of fire and lead the firemen, with the tale of a smoking chimney, to one of the three houses; he would feign illness, and, taking refuge in one of them, at night would explore the premises;

he would impersonate a detective, and insist upon his right to search for stolen property.

As he rejected these and a dozen schemes as fantastic, his brain and eyes were still alert for any chance advantage that the street might offer.

But the minutes passed into an hour, and no one had entered any of the three houses, no one had left them.

In the lower stories, from behind the edges of the blinds, lights appeared, but of the life within there was no sign.

Until he hit upon a plan of action, Ford felt there was no longer anything to be gained by remaining in Sowell Street.

Already the answer to his cable might have arrived at his rooms; at Gerridge's he might still learn something of Pearsall.

He decided to revisit both these places, and, while so engaged, to send from his office one of his assistants to cover the Sowell Street houses.

He cast a last, reluctant look at the closed blinds, and moved away.

As he did so, two itinerant musicians dragging behind them a small street piano on wheels turned the corner, and, as the rain had now ceased, one of them pulled the oil-cloth covering from the instrument and, seating himself on a camp-stool at the curb, opened the piano.

After a discouraged glance at the darkened windows, the other, in a hoarse, strident tenor, to the accompaniment of the piano, began to sing.

The voice of the man was raucous, penetrating.

It would have reached the recesses of a tomb.

“She sells sea-shells on the sea-shore,” the vocalist wailed.

“The shells she sells are sea-shells, I'm sure.

” The effect was instantaneous.

A window was flung open, and an indignant householder with one hand frantically waved the musicians away, and with the other threw them a copper coin.

At the same moment Ford walked quickly to the piano and laid a half-crown on top of it.

“Follow me to Harley Street,” he commanded.

“Don't hurry.

Take your time.

I want you to help me in a sort of practical joke.

It's worth a sovereign to you.

” He passed on quickly.

When he glanced behind him, he saw the two men, fearful lest the promised fortune might escape them, pursuing him at a trot.

At Harley Street they halted, breathless.

“How long,” Ford demanded of the one who played the piano, “will it take you to learn the accompaniment to a new song?

” “While you're whistling it,” answered the man eagerly.

“And I'm as quick at a tune as him,” assured the other anxiously.

“I can sing----” “You cannot,” interrupted Ford.

“I'm going to do the singing myself.

Where is there a public-house near here where we can hire a back room, and rehearse?

” Half an hour later, Ford and the piano-player entered Sowell Street dragging the piano behind them.

The amateur detective still wore his rain-coat, but his hat he had exchanged for a cap, and, instead of a collar, he had knotted around his bare neck a dirty kerchief.

At the end of the street they halted, and in some embarrassment Ford raised his voice in the chorus of a song well known in the music-halls.

It was a very good voice, much too good for “open-air work,” as his companion had already assured him, but, what was of chief importance to Ford, it carried as far as he wished it to go.

Already in Wimpole Street four coins of the realm, flung to him from the highest windows, had testified to its power.

From the end of Sowell Street Ford moved slowly from house to house until he was directly opposite the three in one of which he believed the girl to be.

“We will try the NEW songs here,” he said.

Night had fallen, and, except for the gas-lamps, the street was empty, and in such darkness that even without his disguise Ford ran no risk of recognition.

His plan was not new.

It dated from the days of Richard the Lion-hearted.

But if the prisoner were alert and intelligent, even though she could make no answer, Ford believed through his effort she would gain courage, would grasp that from the outside a friend was working toward her.

All he knew of the prisoner was that she came from Kentucky.

Ford fixed his eyes on the houses opposite, and cleared his throat.

The man struck the opening chords, and in a high barytone, and in a cockney accent that made even the accompanist grin, Ford lifted his voice.

“The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home,” he sang; “'tis summer, and the darkies are gay.

” He finished the song, but there was no sign.

For all the impression he had made upon Sowell Street, he might have been singing in his chambers.

“And now the other,” commanded Ford.

The house-fronts echoed back the cheering notes of “Dixie.

” Again Ford was silent, and again The silence answered him.

The accompanist glared disgustedly at the darkened windows.

“They don't know them songs,” he explained professionally.

“Give 'em, 'Mollie Married the Marquis.'

” “I'll sing the first one again,” said Ford.

Once more he broke into the pathetic cadences of the “Old Kentucky Home.

” But there was no response.

He was beginning to feel angry, absurd.

He believed he had wasted precious moments, and, even as he sang, his mind was already working upon a new plan.

The song ceased, unfinished.

“It's no use!

” he exclaimed.

Remembering himself, he added: “We'll try the next street.

” But even as he spoke he leaped forward.

Coming apparently from nowhere, something white sank through the semi-darkness and fell at his feet.

It struck the pavement directly in front of the middle one of the three houses.

Ford fell upon it and clutched it in both hands.

It was a woman's glove.

Ford raced back to the piano.

“Once more,” he cried, “play 'Dixie'!

” He shouted out the chorus exultantly, triumphantly.

Had he spoken it in words, the message could not have carried more clearly.

Ford now believed he had found the house, found the woman, and was eager only to get rid of his companion and, in his own person, return to Sowell Street.

But, lest the man might suspect there was in his actions something more serious than a practical joke, he forced himself to sing the new songs in three different streets.

Then, pretending to tire of his prank, he paid the musician and left him.

He was happy, exultant, tingling with excitement.

Good-luck had been with him, and, hoping that Gerridge's might yet yield some clew to Pearsall, he returned there.

Calling up the London office of the REPUBLIC, he directed that one of his assistants, an English lad named Cuthbert, should at once join him at that hotel.

Cuthbert was but just out of Oxford.

He wished to become a writer of fiction, and, as a means of seeing many kinds of life at first hand, was in training as a “Pressman.

” His admiration for Ford amounted to almost hero-worship; and he regarded an “assignment” with his chief as a joy and an honor.

Full of enthusiasm, and as soon as a taxicab could bring him, he arrived at Gerridge's, where, in a corner of the deserted coffee-room, Ford explained the situation.

Until he could devise a way to enter the Sowell Street house.

Cuthbert was to watch over it.

“The number of the house is forty,” Ford told him; “the name on the door-plate, Dr. Prothero.

Find out everything you can about him without letting any one catch you at it.

Better begin at the nearest chemist's. Say you are on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and ask the man to mix you a sedative, and recommend a physician.

Show him Prothero's name and address on a piece of paper, and say Prothero has been recommended to you as a specialist on nervous troubles.

Ask what he thinks of him.

Get him to talk.

Then visit the trades-people and the public-houses in the neighborhood, and say you are from some West End shop where Prothero, wants to open an account.

They may talk, especially if his credit is bad.

And, if you find out enough about him to give me a working basis, I'll try to get into the house to-night.

Meanwhile, I'm going to make another quick search of this hotel for Pearsall.

I'm not satisfied he has not been here.

For why should Miss Dale, with all the hotels in London to choose from, have named this particular one, unless she had good reason for it?

Now, go, and meet me in an hour in Sowell Street.

” Cuthbert was at the door when he remembered he had brought with him from the office Ford's mail and cablegrams.

Among the latter was the one for which Ford had asked.

“Wait,” he commanded.

“This is about the girl.

You had better know what it says.

” The cable read: “Girl orphan, Dalesville named after her family, for three generations mill-owners, father died four years ago, Pearsall brother-in-law until she is twenty-one, which will be in three months.

Girl well known, extremely popular, lived Dalesville until last year, when went abroad with uncle, since then reports of melancholia and nervous prostration, before that health excellent--no signs insanity--none in family.

Be careful how handle Pearsall, was doctor, gave up practice to look after estate, is prominent in local business and church circles, best reputation, beware libel.

” For the benefit of Cuthbert, Ford had been reading the cable aloud.

The last paragraph seemed especially to interest him, and he read it twice, the second time slowly, and emphasizing the word “doctor.

” “A doctor!

” he repeated.

“Do you see where that leads us?

It may explain several things.

The girl was in good health until went abroad with her uncle, and he is a medical man.

” The eyes of Cuthbert grew wide with excitement.

“You mean poison!

” he whispered.

“Slow poison!

” “Beware libel,” laughed Ford nervously, his own eyes lit with excitement.

“Suppose,” he exclaimed, “he has been using arsenic?

He would have many opportunities, and it's colorless, tasteless; and arsenic would account for her depression and melancholia.

The time when he must turn over her money is very near, and, suppose he has spent the money, speculated with it, and lost it, or that he still has it and wants to keep it?

In three months she will be of age, and he must make an accounting.

The arsenic does not work fast enough.

So what does he do?

To save himself from exposure, or to keep the money, he throws her into this private sanatorium, to make away with her.

” Ford had been talking in an eager whisper.

While he spoke his cigar had ceased to burn, and to light it, from a vase on the mantel he took a spill, one of those spirals of paper that in English hotels, where the proprietor is of a frugal mind, are still used to prevent extravagance in matches.

Ford lit the spill at the coal fire, and with his cigar puffed at the flame.

As he did so the paper unrolled.

To the astonishment of Cuthbert, Ford clasped it in both hands, blotted out the tiny flame, and, turning quickly to a table, spread out the charred paper flat.

After one quick glance, Ford ran to the fireplace, and, seizing a handfull of the spills, began rapidly to unroll them.

Then he turned to Cuthbert and, without speaking, showed him the charred spill.

It was a scrap torn from the front page of a newspaper.

The half-obliterated words at which Ford pointed were DALESVILLE COUR ---- “His torn paper!

” said Ford.

“The DALESVILLE COURIER.

Pearsall HAS been in this hotel!

” He handed another spill to Cuthbert.

“From that one,” said Ford, “we get the date, December 3. Allowing three weeks for the newspaper to reach London, Pearsall must have seen it just three weeks ago, just when Miss Dale says he was in the hotel.

The landlord has lied to me.

” Ford rang for a waiter, and told him to ask Mr. Gerridge to come to the smoking-room.

As Cuthbert was leaving it, Gerridge was entering it, and Ford was saying: “It seems you've been lying to the police and to me.

Unless you desire to be an accessory to a murder, You had better talk quick!

” An hour later Ford passed slowly through Sowell Street in a taxicab, and, finding Cuthbert on guard, signalled him to follow.

In Wimpole Street the cab drew up to the curb, and Cuthbert entered it.

“I have found Pearsall,” said Ford.

“He is in No. 40 with Prothero.

” He then related to Cuthbert what had happened.

Gerridge had explained that when the Police called, his first thought was to protect the good name of his hotel.

He had denied any knowledge of Pearsall only because he no longer was a guest, and, as he supposed Pearsall had passed out of his life, he saw no reason, why, through an arrest and a scandal, his hotel should be involved.

Believing Ford to be in the secret service of the police, he was now only too anxious to clear himself of suspicion by telling all he knew.

It was but little.

Pearsall and his niece had been at the hotel for three days.

During that time the niece, who appeared to be an invalid, remained in her room.

On the evening of the third day, while Pearsall was absent, a call from him had come for her by telephone, on receiving which Miss Dale had at once left the hotel, apparently in great agitation.

That night she did not return, but in the morning Pearsall came to collect his and her luggage and to settle his account.

He explained that a woman relative living at the Langham Hotel had been taken suddenly ill, and had sent for him and his niece.

Her condition had been so serious that they had remained with her all night, and his niece still was at her bedside.

The driver of a four-wheeler, who for years had stood on the cab-rank in front of Gerridge's, had driven Pearsall to the Langham.

This man was at the moment on the rank, and from him Ford learned what he most wished to know.

The cabman remembered Pearsall, and having driven him to the Langham, for the reason that immediately after setting him down there, and while “crawling” for a fare in Portland Place, a whistle from the Langham had recalled him, and the same luggage that had just been taken from the top of his cab was Put back on it, and he was directed by the porter of the hotel to take it to a house in Sowell Street.

There a man-servant had helped him unload the trunks and had paid him his fare.

The cabman did not remember the number of the house, but knew it was on the west side of the street and in the middle of the block.

Having finished with Gerridge and the cab-man, Ford had at once gone to the Langham Hotel, where, as he anticipated, nothing was known of Pearsall or his niece, or of any invalid lady.

But the hall-porter remembered the American gentleman who had driven up with many pieces of luggage, and who, although it was out of season, and many suites in the hotel were vacant, had found none to suit him.

He had then set forth on foot, having left word that his trunks be sent after him.

The address he gave was a house in Sowell Street.

The porter recalled the incident because he and the cabman had grumbled over the fact that in five minutes they had twice to handle the same boxes.

“It is pretty evident,” said Ford, what Pearsall had in mind, but chance was against him.

He thought when he had unloaded his trunks at the Langham and dismissed the cabman he had destroyed the link connecting him with Gerridge's. He could not foresee that the same cabman would be loitering in the neighborhood.

He should have known that four-wheelers are not as plentiful as they once were; and he should have given that particular one more time to get away.

His idea in walking to the Sowell Street house was obviously to prevent the new cabman from seeing him enter it.

But, just where he thought he was clever, was just where he tripped.

If he had remained with his trunks he would have seen that the cabman was the same one who had brought them and him from Craven Street, and he would have given any other address in London than the one he did.

“And now,” said Ford, “that we have Pearsall where we want him, tell me what you have learned about Prothero?

” Cuthbert smiled importantly, and produced a piece of paper scribbled over with notes.

“Prothero,” he said, “seems to be THIS sort of man.

If he made your coffee for you, before you tasted it, you'd like him to drink a cup of it first.

”